As the sun dipped low in the west, the death toll of the wedding feast was announced: twelve in total.
Only then did Daenerys understand what Drogo had been trying to convey with his hand gestures.
It was now the Khal’s turn to present a gift to his Khaleesi.
Drogo stood up, his mind racing—how do you say ‘come with me’ in English again?
Come…
come with…
no, it should be: “Follow me!” As soon as his London accent came out, the nearby Bloodriders exchanged glances.
Cohollo’s expression was particularly astonished; he could no longer understand this Khal he had known since childhood.
Daenerys looked up at him, her violet eyes filled with surprise, and then she slowly stood up.
Drogo strode away from her side.
When the gathered Dothraki saw the Khal approaching, they automatically parted to let him through.
Daenerys, having snapped back to her senses, hurried after him.
Drogo was holding a horse at the end of the crowd.
It was a young filly, her coat as grey as the winter sea and her mane like silver smoke.
He watched as Daenerys reached out to stroke the horse’s neck, her fingers sliding through the silver mane.
It was clear that Daenerys loved the horse.
He said, “The silver mane matches your silver hair perfectly.” Illyrio stood by and translated for Daenerys; of this translation, Drogo only understood the word ‘hair.’ He stepped forward, startling Daenerys into retreating a few steps, her expression somewhat fearful.
He reached out, wrapped his arm around her waist, and lifted her onto the saddle with a single, fluid motion.
Then he turned to mount his own horse.
In that brief interval, Viserys slipped to the side of Daenerys on her silver horse, digging his fingers into the flesh of her thigh.
“My dear sweet sister,” he hissed, his voice low and strained, “please him well.
Otherwise, I promise you shall see what the wrath of the sleeping dragon looks like.” Daenerys bit her lip and remained silent.
Drogo rode over and glanced at Viserys.
Viserys backed away two steps, a malicious smirk on his face.
Drogo ignored him.
He looked only at Daenerys and repeated the same phrase: “Follow me.” Then he spurred his horse into a gallop.
He had long wanted to leave that noisy place, and he figured Daenerys felt the same way.
The two horses rode one after the other through the camp and across the grasslands until they reached the ivy-covered palace by the bay.
Drogo dismounted and lifted her down from her horse, then gave an instruction to the servant who came to meet them: “Prepare hot water.” “Yes, Khal!” the servant replied hastily.
Once the bath was filled with hot water, he went to see her.
Daenerys was standing by the window, her face already streaked with tears.
Drogo looked at the tears in her eyes, his gaze tender.
“Don’t cry baby.” He raised his hand and gently wiped away her tears with his calloused thumb.
“You speak the common tongue?” Daenerys finally had the chance to ask the question burning in her heart.
“A little,” he said again.
He thought to himself that he never expected to make up for the classes he’d skipped in such a way.
A servant came forward to undress Daenerys.
She instinctively covered her chest with her hands, but Drogo took her by the wrist and led her into the bath.
“Don’t be shy,” he said.
The water rose above her chest, and warmth enveloped her body.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his fingers gently stroking her hair.
Servants knelt by the pool, carefully untying the bells from his braid and placing them one by one on a tray.
Daenerys leaned against his chest and whispered, “Can you write these words?” Drogo nodded.
He extended a finger and slowly traced letters on her back.
One letter, then another, forming a word.
Only after his finger stopped did he see Daenerys break into a smile.
It was the first time he had seen her smile.
The two of them continued talking like that.
Drogo spoke slowly, using hand gestures when he lacked the words.
Daenerys was tense at first, but she gradually relaxed and was no longer so restrained.
He spoke again of the prophecy regarding the death toll at the wedding, gesturing as he had during the day, though he only knew the English word “twelve.” Daenerys understood that word, but not the whole sentence.
“A wedding is considered lively enough if three people die; why did you have to arrange for twelve?” He hadn’t expected his attempt to look cool to result in a misunderstanding, and his clumsy tongue could only say, “No, no!” The maid by the pool—the same one who had helped wipe his body the day before—looked up at the two of them and spoke softly.
She asked Drogo in the dothraki language and then translated for Daenerys in the common tongue.
Back and forth they went until the misunderstanding was cleared up.
She was a blonde, blue-eyed Lysene woman whose family had been killed by invading Dothraki, and she herself had been taken as a slave.
After her original Khalasar was defeated, she was sold again as a slave to a wealthy merchant in Pentos.
Later, the Magisters, wanting to better entertain Khal Drogo, bought her from the merchant at a much higher price.
Drogo was only learning this now.
As she said, the old Drogo would never have spoken so much to a maid, let alone cared about her background.
He reached out and pulled the maid into the bath as well.
Water splashed everywhere.
She gave a startled cry as she fell into the pool, her clothes soaking wet and clinging to her body.
She was a woman not yet thirty, an age of radiant charm.
As he and Daenerys talked, she served as the translator.
“The people of the Free Cities treat me with great respect on the surface, even giving me this palace.
In reality, they simply think my friendship is very cheap—if a single palace can buy peace for both sides, why wouldn’t they do it?” Daenerys looked up at him in surprise.
She never expected that the words Illyrio had once told her would come out of his mouth, word for word.
She stared at Drogo, her eyes full of scrutiny.
He might be different from what she had imagined.
The bath became quiet for a while.
The water in the pool began to cool.
Drogo looked at his hands; his fingers were pruned and white from the soak.
The three of them stepped out of the pool.
Servants immediately surrounded them, using soft cloths to dry his body while another dried his long hair from behind.
His jet-black hair was soaking wet, hanging down in clumps, and it took a long time to dry.
Daenerys had already put on a robe nearby and was waiting.
He continued to stand there, letting the servants tend to his wet hair.
If not for Dothraki tradition, he really would have liked to cut off the braid and shave his beard.
It was heavy and troublesome; it took half a day to wash and half a day to dry, and in battle, an enemy could just reach out and grab it.
What ‘bullshit honor’—it was a pure burden.
But he knew his Khalasar would never allow him to do so.
To those people, the braid was more important than life itself.
The moon was already high in the sky, and a sea breeze blew in through the window, making the sheer curtains above the bed flutter.
Drogo waved his hand, dismissing the other servants.
Then he pointed to the maid who had helped translate: “You stay.” The maid lowered her head.
“My name is Lali, Khal.” Drogo didn’t respond.
He didn’t care what her name was.
He lay down on the large bed.
It was very soft, so soft that one sank into it as if lying on a cloud.
Daenerys lay on her side with her back to him, her shoulders tense and her breathing very light.
She likely knew what was coming next; her body trembled slightly, but the resistance she felt before was gone.
With Lali’s help, the process went smoothly.
Though Daenerys was nervous at first, she gradually relaxed.
By the time Drogo was promoted from Horse Lord to “Dragon Rider,” the sound of waves crashing against the shore was echoing outside the window.